


Try again tomorrow

by thatsthefrailtyofgenius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, cute human disasters being lovesick fools together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8059654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsthefrailtyofgenius/pseuds/thatsthefrailtyofgenius
Summary: Three scenes from the pov of all three characters. Fluffy as fuck, with a very tiny bit of angst added in the form of hurt/comfort.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write something for these three assholes for ages, but I haven't had the time or the inspiration; but this was wonderful to write, and reminded me of how much I adore this trio together. 
> 
> This is a standalone, so there most likely wont be a follow up. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, enjoy, and as always, thank you. 
> 
> Dee xx  
> P.S There isn't actually any smut, but there's some heated kissing that gets a bit nsfw and preludes sexy times.

When Ron gets home on a Friday, he isn’t expecting to find both Hermione and Harry sat on their kitchen floor sobbing. To begin with, he’s incredibly alarmed, dropping his bag down by the doorframe and moving to crouch in front of Harry, knocking his chin up with the brush of his knuckle to inspect his face.

His green eyes are blotchy and bloodshot, and Hermione’s are puffy and red, both of their hair a huge mess atop their heads.

“I don’t see any blood,” Ron raises his eyebrows and looks around “and there’s no signs of a break in or any real mess. So who wants to tell me how the fuck the two of you can end up in this state when I’ve left you alone for less than two hours”

Harry sniffs pitifully and pouts, and Hermione opens her mouth to explain, but closes it again a moment later, drawing in a few messy breaths and wiping her face on the baggy sleeve of one of Ron’s jumpers.

“We-”

“I-”

“It was Harry’s fault-”

“Fuck you! You suggested-”

“That’s bullshit, Harry! He’s bullshitting-”

“Um, I think you’ll find-”

“Enough,” Ron cuts across them, before he lifts his head to look through the other door to the kitchen into the living room, and sees the ending credits of Toy Story 3.

“We just wanted to watch a film, and-”

“You know you’re not supposed to watch this,” Ron tells Hermione as he lets out a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head incredulously and fondly tucking a curl behind her ear, pushing back up to full height. He tugs two wads of paper from the kitchen roll, passing them down to his boyfriend and girlfriend, who both take it with grateful expressions.

“Why the fuck did Andy have to go away to Uni, Ron?” Harry asks softly, in the most endearing little voice, that Ron feels his heart swell in his chest, and a wide smile grace his mouth.

“You two are twats,” he remarks, tutting as he leans back against the counter and watches them trying to regain their composure “why are you sat on the floor?”

“Sometimes it’s just nice to sit,” Hermione whimpers as she swallows the lump in her throat. Ron has to count to ten and remind himself to not be a total lovesick idiot when his two best friends are being so ridiculous; it should _not_ be so cute, that with all the trauma and pain they have to cry about, a damn Pixar film reduces them to snivelling wrecks on their kitchen tiles.

“We came in to try and make hot chocolate to make us feel better,” Harry explains when he’s sounding more like himself “but we couldn’t find the milk and the kettle is being shit again and… well, it’s been an emotional night, okay?”

“I can see that,” Ron humours them, still smiling despite himself.

“Did you have a good day at work?”

“It was work,” Ron shrugs as though that’s answer enough “I’m going to make you two your damn hot chocolates. You’re going to watch something trashy and funny on Netflix whilst I shower and by the time I come back, there better be a Chinese takeout on the way and not a tear in sight, got it?”

Harry pouts some more, but eventually gets to his feet, hauling Hermione up with him and having the composure to now look mildly abashed. Ron flicks the kettle on with some wobbling of the dodgy wire he told Harry to get fixed weeks ago, and gets to making their drinks.

“Sorry we’re such a mess,” Hermione says as he goes, and he pauses in spooning the cocoa powder into the mugs, tutting and giving into the urge gripping at his insides. He drops the spoon and takes both their chins in his hands, pressing lingering kisses to both their foreheads.

“Its fine,” he tells them “I think you’ve earned the right to break down about mundane shit by now”

“Really though, was your day really that bad?” Harry asks, looking decidedly a lot better after Ron’s kiss, which again makes him want to burst with an embarrassing rush of affection.

“It was okay,” he tells them honestly as Hermione leans against Harry’s body where he presses against the counter near the door to the lounge, watching Ron make their hot chocolate. She wraps her arms around Harry’s middle and tucks herself against the side of him, resting her head on his shoulder as he dangles one loose arm over her collar bone the other side.

Ron looks at them like this, all sleepy and wrapped up in each other, recovering from their breakdown of the day and dressed in baggy, soft clothes, their brown skin slightly flushed, Hermione’s afro curls tangled a little where they fall to her waist, Harry’s messy curls flopping over his face like they’re mimicking his mood.

They’re so beautiful and precious to him, he can hardly stand it sometimes, can hardly believe that he has them both like this; the three of them wonderful disasters all together.

“Its retail,” Ron shrugs again, and Hermione quirks her eyebrow in understanding.

“Looks like the curse of the devil customer transcends both the muggle and the wizarding world”

“People are assholes,” Harry remarks, pressing an absent minded kiss to the top of Hermione’s head.

“You can say that again,” Ron replies and they detangle themselves when he hands them their hot cups “don’t forget the food, okay?”

“Spring roll and crispy duck, right?” Hermione says, nodding to herself more than anything.

“I love you,” Ron grins, winking at her as she follows Harry through to the living room and Ron turns to go the opposite way to the bathroom down the hall where their bedroom is also situated.

* * *

 

Hermione stirs around midnight, and blinks herself awake, for a second slightly confused by the heavy weight on her chest and the press of a hand on her ankle. When she opens her eyes properly, she finds Ron’s whole body draped over her front, snoring and drooling on her collar bone. Harry is also asleep where he’s propped up sitting on the other end of the sofa near her feet, legs outstretched and resting on the coffee table, hand curled in the fabric of her cotton trackies.

As much as she loves cuddling with her boys, her neck is in an awkward position against the arm of the furniture and the cushions, and she’s having a hard time breathing under Ron’s muscled heft. Not to mention the way Harry’s back is situated; they’re all going to have cricks and aches in the morning if she doesn’t move them all soon.

Still squinting at the brightness of the tv still playing reruns of New Girl, she grimaces at the knot of tangled muscle in the back of her neck and grumbles, bringing her hand up to pinch one of Ron’s nipples through his cotton pullover.

He jerks immediately and almost falls off her onto the floor, letting out a half-coherent string of curse words. She also kicks her leg out at Harry’s thigh, and he groans loudly, rousing with a heavy frown and squinched eyelids.

“Guys,” Hermione moans, as Ron moves off of her, still swearing, and Harry flips her the bird, still with only one eye open “don’t pout at me; we’d be way more achy if I let you sleep out here and not in the bed”

“I hate you,” Harry huffs, shuffling bit by bit from the sofa to his feet as Ron turns of the TV and Hermione starts tidying some of the leftover Chinese food on the table.

Instead of putting it away however, and nudging and bumping into each other, dinging elbows into ribs at the same time as propping each other up, they blindly stumble down the hall to their bedroom, falling onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and grumpy, tired bickering.

Regardless of petulant prodding however, they still end up curled around each other on their giant bed, Harry having just enough awareness to reach down and pull their tent of a duvet over them.

She feels much better like this, with Harry spooning her back, one hand curled around her tit under her shirt, her own arm thrown over Ron’s waist, ankle hooked around his; its softer and far warmer and her ribs are less likely to cave in.

After about ten minutes of silence, Harry shifts a little and mutters, “do you think poop screams when we push it out?”

“Go the fuck to sleep, you absolute knobjockey,” Ron growls groggily, and Hermione can’t help the giggle that escapes her lips against the skin of Ron’s freckled neck. It’s dark but when she squints one eye open, she can see the outline of his cheek where he’s trying not to smile a little and failing miserably.

“G’night guys,” Hermione whispers gently.

“’Night, Mione,” they both slur back, the two of them snuggling further into her at the same time. She swallows the gathering lump in her throat and the laboured breath of her upticked heartbeat as she dips back under the fog of sleep, wrapped in her boys and feeling happier than she ever thought a person could be.

* * *

 

Harry huffs as his hair falls in his eyes for the third time in ten minutes, and finally tugs the hairband from around his wrist, pulling it all back in a loose bun and standing back to admire his handy work, one hand on his waist, the other dangling at his side.

They’re spending the day decorating the flat they’ve done up from scratch, and he’s been painting the walls of the large living room for the past five hours. Hermione is crouched in front of a flat pack entertainment centre from Homebase and doing a fantastic job, as expected. Ron is under the sink fixing whatever the fuck is wrong with their plumbing.

That’s a view Hermione and Harry can appreciate; and definitely the reason why they’ve taken so long doing their own tasks. Ron stretched out with his t-shirt riding up and revealing a muscled patch of skin at his abdomen, along with the way his thighs and dick are very visible under the thin fabric of his loose cotton bottoms, is honestly a ridiculously maddening distraction.

“Lunch,” Harry says, wiping the line of sweat from his brow with the back of his free hand and stretching his arms above his head, rejoicing at the crack in his back as it clicks into place.

“Just another fifteen minutes,” Hermione gruffs as she attempts to twist an alan key in a screw at an awkward angle; another distraction for Harry, as she has her hair back too and the hickeys left on her neck have been visible all day, not to mention the way her toned arms flex when she puts pressure on wood or a screwdriver or something.

Her hand slips however and she hisses loudly, the sound drawing the attention of both boys as Ron jerks in alarm and smacks his head on the inside of their sink. Harry goes to Hermione, as Ron resurfaces frowning and rubbing his scalp.

“Let me see,” Harry says softly where she’s cradling her hand, taking it gently in his own “fuck,” he curses as he lays eyes on the deep cut scaling her palm and bleeding rather a lot. Panic sets in his chest and his head swims, breath hitching.

“Harry, you don’t have to. I can-”

“Shut up,” he tells her, but there’s no malice to his voice, even though it’s a little shaky “jesus I’m not an invalid; its fine. I have to get over it sooner or later. C’mon”

He helps her up carefully, still cupping her hand in his.

“Harry, you-”

“Don’t,” he cuts across Ron, shooting him a look that makes him be abruptly quiet “I can take care of my significant others without breaking down just because of some blood. Here, put this on it,” he says as he helps Hermione sit down and hands her a damp dishcloth.

Ron sits down beside her and rubs a hand up and down her back in a soothing motion, watching Harry with cautious, but trusting eyes.

Harry gets the tube bandage from the first aid kit, as Hermione’s wrist had twisted at an awkward angle too, and slips his wand from the front pocket of his jeans, padding back to them with a determined expression on his face.

He’s sweating a little again, and his heart is beating fast in his chest, the texture of the warm blood on his hands making him a little nauseated. But he pushes through it and forces his own hands steady, softly pulling Hermione’s hand out across the kitchen island and taking the dishcloth from her.

He replaces it with an anti-septic wipe, tenderly cleaning the wound as she buries her face in Ron’s neck sideways and bites down softly on his shoulder to quell her yelps of pain.

“Stitches or magic?” he asks her.

That’s one of their things. Consent has been a big part of their relationship since the three of them accidentally sort of fell into bed with each other about five months after the war.

One of their most important agreements, is that when they’re injured, they give each other the choice of being healed by magic, or by muggle medicine. Sometimes scars are important; sometimes it feels more human to keep them. Healing by magic can feel so… erroneous.

Evidence of pain can be far more grounding than the absence of a mark.

She swallows, draws in a deep, shaky breath, and clutches at Ron’s thigh with her free hand, her nails digging in. If it hurts him, he doesn’t say anything. Harry swallows, knowing what she’s going to say before she says it.

“Stitches,” she says, her voice solid and clear of falter, despite the clear pain she’s in.

“Okay. Bite down on-”

“I don’t need it,” she insists as he moves to hand her the sponge they use in these situations “I’m – just… Harry, if you can’t-”

“Hermione,” he says, reaching to bring her face in his direction by her chin, making direct eye contact “it’s alright”

She swallows once, and nods, smiling as much as she can at Ron, who wipes the wetness from her eyes and slides an arm around her waist for support.

“Squeeze my leg as hard as you need to,” Ron tells her, and Harry uses the fierce swell of love in his heart for these two idiots, to centre himself as he starts on the stitching.

He’s so focused, that by the time he finishes, he can barely remember doing it, and when he does put the needle down, he puts his elbows to the counter and brings Hermione’s fingers to his lips, bowing his head and kissing the tips of them as he breaths in and out through his nose.

He’s very tired, but feeling stronger now somehow, and his heart sings knowing that he’s helped his girlfriend, made something better for her, made something safe for her. He’s capable of pushing through his trigger, and feels far more durable for it afterward.

When he feels like he can lift his head again, Hermione and Ron are both smiling at him like he hung the fucking moon or something. He lets out an exasperated laugh and rolls his eyes, wetting his lips and wiping his brow before he gets started on wrapping the injury for her, and then fitting the tube bandage to support her wrist whilst it heals.

“Hey, loser,” Hermione catches him as he goes to wash his hands in the newly fixed sink “I love you”

He smiles again and goes to her, taking her face in his hands and tipping it up so he can meet her lips. It’s not a long kiss, nor is it a deep one, but it lingers on his mouth as he turns away again, and when he does go to the sink, Ron’s arms wrap around him from behind, and lips pepper warm kisses along the arch of his neck.

“Not that I’m complaining, but all I did was stitch her hand. I didn’t kill Voldemort again or anything”

Ron just snorts and nips playfully at his pulse point.

“I’m still proud of you, dickhead,” he mumbles, and Harry smiles as his blood starts to head south and he tilts his neck to allow more access.

“Please tell me this isn’t a weird kink or something?”

“Fuck you,” Ron laughs dryly, licking down to the dip of his collar bone.

“I mean; we really do need to eat lunch. Hermione’s been putting it off for an hour now”

“Hey,” she says loudly from over their shoulders “I was building that monstrosity of an entertainment centre, don’t whine; I’ve bled for that thing”

Harry just laughs, feeling light headed and elated, and getting increasingly heated for an entirely different reason.

“Listen, I’m the one in pain, I think I deserve the TLC here if anything,” Hermione inputs again and Harry finishes up washing his hands, deliberately pushing back at the growing hardness in Ron’s trousers to nudge him away.

“She is right,” he remarks, winking when Ron looks offended at the rebuff “she does deserve some TLC”

“Boys,” she frowns at them “boys, I know that look, what are you – oh my god; boys, I – _fuck_ ,” she gasps as Harry ducks under her body, lifting her over his shoulder and slips his finger under the fabric of her pyjama shorts, nipping at the side of her thigh. Ron attaches himself to Harry’s back again as they stumble laughing and rutting and moaning to the bedroom, decorating and food forgotten for the third day in a row.

Ah, well, they’ll try again tomorrow.

 


End file.
